


#FlyTheUnfriendlySkies

by dugindeep (hotsauce)



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: Actor Jared, Airports, Alternate Universe, Customer Service Jensen, Early dislike of characters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2722895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotsauce/pseuds/dugindeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen is a customer service agent in American Airlines’ Admirals Club and Jared is the crabby celebrity who is always in his face.</p><p>Written for <a href="http://www.obsidianromance.livejournal.com"> for her prompt “J2 hate each other, then they don’t.”</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	#FlyTheUnfriendlySkies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ObsidianRomance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianRomance/gifts).



At 5 PM, Jensen sighs then slightly smiles. It’s been a long shift that should be almost over, except the incoming flight from Phoenix is running far behind schedule and the Admirals Club is full of some very tired, unhappy folks who just want to get on a plane up north, and a handful of jovial souls who have spent most of the delay visiting the lounge in the corner and are now swapping stories about unlikely snow storms in Oklahoma.

And then there’s the unruly, loud, and impossible-to-satisfy Jared Padalecki approaching the counter. 

Jensen pastes on a fake smile, stands a little taller, and adjusts the ends of his American Airlines-issued suit jacket. 

“Hello, Mr. Padalecki,” Jensen offers, but is quickly cut-off with the determined frustration Jensen’s come to know over the last few months from the over-entitled actor.

“What is the delay now?” 

Jensen tries to keep his voice level, but his disdain for this particular traveler only grows with the scowl on the man’s face. “We are waiting on the plane to arrive.”

Mr. Padalecki checks his phone, even flashes it at Jensen where a bold clock reads 5:03. “It’s been over two hours.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And the plane just … isn’t here?” It’s more of a statement than a question, anger lacing his words. 

“No, I’m afraid it isn’t, but if you like—”

“What I’d like is for the plane to have been here at 2:30 when it was scheduled, and for me to already be flying over Salt Lake City, on my way to Vancouver, so I can _work_ in the morning.”

Jensen barely restrains and eye roll, and forces himself into the best customer service mode possible. “Well, I’m very sorry, Mr. Padalecki.”

Now the man sharply smiles, something cruel and unpleasant on what Jensen had original deemed a very attractive face. “Yeah, I’m sure you are. You get paid no matter what time we fly out.”

Jensen gathers up another apology, but Mr. Padalecki is already walking away with a huff and lands heavily in an arm chair just a few feet away. It’s great that the counter is no longer plagued by Mr. Padalecki’s sour mood, except he’s close enough to glare at Jensen for the next five minutes while Jensen tries his best to ignore it.

Which is impossible, because the man is quite imposing with his tall frame, wide shoulders, and generous hair—something for a salon shampoo commercial, probably. So when Mr. Padalecki’s disposition shifts into this moody, needy role, Jensen has a hard time bypassing it.

What a shame that someone this good looking can be this terrible. 

Almost thirty minutes and another huffy tirade later, Jensen is happy to announce the plane has now landed, it’s being deplaned for folks with a final destination in Austin, and to please head to the gate. Most fliers are happy to finally receive good news, but not Mr. Padalecki. He’s still sour as a lemon and flashing dark looks Jensen’s way as he gets his carry-on items together and heads out. 

Jensen grins in return, happy to finally be ride of the man … at least, for tonight.

 

*

 

“Oh, fuck me hard,” Jensen mumbles as he eyes the manifest for the remaining two flights of the afternoon.

“Now, _that_ is quite an invitation.”

He stares at Mike Rosenbaum, now standing beside him. It’s been quite a few weeks since they worked together after Mike was shifted to weekday evenings and Jensen remained on the morning/afternoon shift. Mike has the same sly grin he’s always wearing when joking with Jensen, but something seems different …“When, and why, did you grow hair?”

“In the last month,” he replies, rubbing his no-longer bald head. 

“Why?”

“Why not?”

It was the same answer Mike gave when he shaved it clean over a year ago, and is in line with what he usually says in response to something off, so Jensen lets it slide with a shrug. 

“So what’s with the hard fucking?”

Jensen sighs. “Jared Padalecki is on the 2:30 again.”

“Oh, so you wanna fuck him?” Mike even waggles his eyebrows and winks.

“What? No way. He’s a monster. And rude. So _very_ rude.”

“He’s a TV star,” Mike says easily, as if it answers all of the many mysteries behind Padalecki’s outbursts in the clubhouse. “Most of them are rude to peons like us.”

“He’s a Grade A asshole, and I would be happy to never deal with him again. He’s always ripping on the staff and complaining over the littlest things, then demanding drink tickets for his troubles.”

Mike moves closer to look over Jensen’s shoulder and read the screen that shows Padalecki has his usual first class window seat. “Is he really that bad?”

“Worse than bad. Horrendous.”

“Well … then let’s do something about that.”

A dozen keystrokes later, the line with Padalecki’s name and seat assignment blinks then drops halfway down the screen. Now, he’s in seat 23B, halfway back in the plane, and stuck in the middle, which will likely be murder on the man’s large frame.

“No, wait, you can’t do that,” Jensen argues, but then imagines Padalecki trying to fold into a smaller seat with less foot room, wedged in between two travelers who just might chew off the guy’s ear, excitedly going on and on about how they’re sitting next to someone famous. Now, Jensen’s smiling and shaking his head at Mike. “Oh, you sly dog.”

“Ain’t no thang.”

“I owe you big,” Jensen laughs. “Now if only we can get Danneel to take a few pictures of that. It’s gonna be way too funny to miss out on.”

Sadly, three hours later, nothing is funny at all and Jensen is mentally cursing Mike out as Mr. Padalecki stands before him. His nostrils are flaring, eyes wide with fury, and his ticket declaring him a middle seat is crushed in one mighty large fist. 

He’s also seething and nearly spitting as he says, “Do you who I am? Do you know my name?”

Of course Jensen does … not only because he’s been a huge pain in the ass for months, but he’s a big star on a little network and likes to insist that means something.

“I have been an Emerald Executive Platinum member for nearly a decade.”

“Yes, sir, I see that in your profile,” Jensen replies while looking at the screen for Mr. Padalecki’s profile. 

“I have never had so many problems in my life until I’ve dealt with you and this counter.”

Jensen clicks back to the seating chart where a flurry of blue Xs light up every seat, signaling they’re all taken and unavailable. “I’m sorry, sir, but this is a full flight.”

“No, it’s not! Because I have a seat in first class, and this ticket is lying.” He waves the paper in his fist, and then pounds his hand on the counter, drawing attention from those around him.

He only wishes Mike wasn't on break and could handle this, but Jensen’s luck ran out around the time Jared Padalecki started flying out Sunday afternoons and ruining Jensen’s shifts. 

“And _you’re lying_ and I—”

“There’s no need to get nasty,” Jensen says tartly. 

Slowly, Mr. Padalecki declares, “I … want … my … seat.”

Jensen purses his lips, determined to stand up for himself and maintain this moment. “I’m very sorry, but the flight is full. Perhaps once you’re on board, you can speak with the flight crew to make adjustments.”

Mr. Padalecki tips his head and deadens the harsh look he’s had trained on Jensen since he first appeared in the clubhouse. “So, it’s like that, huh?”

“I’m very sorry, sir.” Jensen slides a few drink tickets across the counter, hoping that a couple of vodkas will chill Mr. Padalecki out. “Make sure you ask for Danneel and she’ll take care of you.”

He narrows his eyes, and quickly grabs the tickets. “She better.”

“She will.”

“You bet she will.”

Jensen cruelly smiles. “Of course.”

“Okay, then.”

They stare at one another for a few more moments, dragging on far longer than comfortable. When Mr. Padalecki finally heads to the lounge in the corner, Jensen releases a long breath and thunks his head on the counter.

 

*

 

“I understand that you’re upset, bu—”

“Oh, I’m _way_ more than upset!” Mr. Padalecki bellows. 

Jensen clenches his teeth and steels himself against the anger radiating off of the man on the other side of the counter. “And I understand that.”

He haughtily laughs. “I don’t think you do. You’re fucking with my seat again.”

“I can only do so much at the moment,” Jensen says while slowly spread his hands out in a calming motion. The computer system has gone berserk and this time, it isn’t Jensen’s or Mike’s or anyone else’s fault that seats were switched around on travelers. He’s been dealing with the same issue for the last hour, and has repeatedly made calls to Central Ticketing to straighten it all out … but Mr. Padalecki is keeping Jensen from making that call for him. “If you give me five minutes to look into the situation, then—”

“I’ve been talking to _you_ about it five minutes, and what has been done? Absolutely nothing.”

Jensen briefly closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Mr. Padalecki, if you can please take a seat, and I will call ticketing.”

“Yeah, you do that,” and Jared’s gone with a flounce over to the seating area. As always, the guy flops down into a chair, spreads his long-long-long legs far out, and pulls his phone out to tap away at the screen.

Jensen grabs the service phone and calls Central Ticketing, being traded around a few areas until finally he reaches one Felicia Day. He’s never met her in person, but did once see a photo in the staff feature section of the inflight magazine, and he figures her bright red hair and even brighter smile matches the jovial way she always answers the phone.

“Central Ticketing, Felicia’s here for you, what do you need?”

“Hey, Felicia,” he sighs, and before more can be said, she’s chuckling.

“Oh, Jensen, you poor thing. I see Padalecki’s a real handful today.”

Jensen looks right at Mr. Padalecki, who’s still busy with his phone, then all around the room to eye each of the cameras keeping guard on the Admirals Club. “Are you watching me right now?”

“No … should I be?”

“No, I just … how did you know he’s here?”

“It’s all over Twitter. Hashtag, flying the unfriendly skies. Ohh, and all in caps. He’s good.”

“What?”

Felicia chuckles again and the rapid fire of keys clicking comes through as well. “He’s tweeting for AA service again because he says the Admirals Club is, and I quote, ‘staffed with despicable trash specializing in torture and sadism.’”

“What?” he screeches and draws attention of everyone in the room. Even Jared Padalecki. “What does that even mean?”

“Well, a masochist is someone who enjoys inflicting pain on others.”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know that … but what does it meant if it’s ‘all over Twitter’?”

“It means he’s broadcasting to the whole world … or, at least, to his 5.8 million followers, that you’re human garbage.”

“What did you do?!” Jensen suddenly shouts at the man.

“Me?” Mr. Padalecki asks, pissy and yet totally unaware of his assholery. 

“Jensen, what’re you doing?” Felicia asks in his ear, but he’s not up for answering her. 

Instead, he’s set to answer the douchebag across the room. “I’m despicable garbage specializing in torture … and what was it?”

Mr. Padalecki is now frowning, eyes wide, and lip tucked between his teeth with guilt. 

“Oh, right!” Jensen yells, “sadism!”

“Jensen, calm down, before Steven gets in there,” Felicia insists.

But it’s as lost to Jensen as his restraint is, because he hops over the counter and leaps at Mr. Padalecki, yet is caught just before he gets any air under him. Officers Steven Williams and Kim Rhodes are now here to keep him back from strangling any customers, and Jensen struggles against them until Williams slides an arm across Jensen’s neck and hauls him back a few steps, through the clubhouse doors, and finally into the concourse with dozens upon dozens of travelers moving all around them. He practically tosses Jensen away, then stands up and fixes his uniform. 

Both Williams and Rhodes are standing at attention, arms crossed, and already appearing skeptical to what just happened in there. 

Rhodes starts first with a pursed smile. “And what’s your deal, son?”

Jensen brushes himself off and huffs, sadly followed by a whine. “That … that … _asshat_ twittered that I was despicable and a sadist and, and … other stuff.”

“Twittered?” Williams asks.

“Kids these days,” Rhodes explains before turning back to Jensen. “Mr. Ackles, you should know that you can’t assault customers.”

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“And we’ve been keeping a close eye on the Admirals Club after a number of complaints about your service.”

“Yeah, but … wait, _what?_ ”

Now Jensen’s boss, Tim, has joined them. He’s shaking his head and frowning like a disappointed parent. Jensen immediately feels the same as a terrible child who was caught cheating on a final. “Jensen, you know that when there’s a problem, you are to elevate it to Guest Services.”

“I didn’t think it was a problem,” he explains, “I was just calling Central Ticketing to get Padalecki’s ticket straightened out.”

“We will take care of that now. Go get yourself some rest.”

Jensen nods, actually looking forward to a small nap in the services lounge, and then frowns at his boss and the officers in apology. “Alright, I’ll be back in thirty.”

“No, you’ll be back next Monday,” Tim declares, and while there’s no room for arguing with the stoic boss, Jensen tries.

“Not ‘til Monday? I’m scheduled all week.”

“And now you’re on suspension. Without pay. It’ll all go into your file.”

Bills add up in Jensen’s head, and while he’s not really strapped for cash, going without a full week’s pay _and_ getting written up isn’t worth anything. Not even if he had gotten his hands around Padalecki’s neck. “For what?”

“For attacking a four-star traveler.”

Jensen laughs harshly. “It’s not like I ever touched him … these two made sure to keep me back.”

Tim wags a finger at Jensen, further inducing Jensen’s embarrassment. “You shouldn’t need to be kept back in the first place.” Once Jensen accepts the situation with a small nod, Tim motions to the side. “Williams and Rhodes will take you to the lounge to gather your things.”

Now Jensen’s left staring at the two officers, full to the brim on shame and deflated anger. He turns away and walks along the right side of foot traffic, glancing back at Williams and Rhodes every few moments. “You don’t actually _have_ to follow me to the lounge.”

“Oh, you bet your sweet ass we do.”

It’s Rhodes saying it and when Jensen stares at her, she winks and ushers him along.

 

*

 

Tim swings Jensen’s schedule just enough that there is no chance for another encounter with Jared Padalecki. Which Jensen is thankful for, sure, but he’s also a bit put off with the situation. And ashamed for how it all went down.

That doesn’t mean he’s not totally pissed off at the guy for getting him suspended. Kind of. Sort of.

Either way, he’s fired up when a regular Sunday, which should end in the early afternoon, just about the time that Padalecki arrives at the airport and checks in (as Jensen may be carefully watching for before bolting for the service lounge), turns into Hell.

If Hell is actually 90 fucking degrees with a monsoon of rain that humidifies the already hot, sticky air. As the storm settles in for the long haul, dark skies fill the view of the tall windows that usually show off the impressive American Airlines fleet of airplanes getting people where they need to be.

Jensen finishes up a voucher for a couple that was planning to visit friends up Colorado and are now accepting a push to tomorrow with complimentary hotel. He keeps an eye on the clock, counts down the minutes between the front baggage check, through security, and down the concourse. He thinks he has a few minutes before any sign of Padalecki, so he’s not too concerned when another customer comes up to ask about options for the rest of the night in spite of the storm.

With that handled with another set of vouchers and hotel plans, Jensen rushes to the frosted glass doors of the Clubhouse and shoves one open just as it’s being roughly tugged away. He stumbles forward while there’s a brick-hard chest coming at him, a shoulder smacking his nose, followed by two large, warm hands grabbing his shoulders to right him. 

It’s Padalecki and Jensen immediately growls. Then drops the anger when he sees damp, dark hair slicked back off his face, and slow dribbles of left-behind rain water travelling down his check and over the sharp angle of his strong jaw and smooth neck. 

Jensen gulps. 

Then he remembers the time he wanted to wrap his fingers around that neck, what Jared had said on Twitter, that Jensen was suspended without pay … Jensen stands right up, growls again, and straightens his suit and tie. 

“I’m really sorry,” Padalecki says, and Jensen’s struck silent and dumb.

“What?”

“I’m really sorry,” he repeats, nearly soft and caring. “For, you know …”

Jensen shakes his head and moves away as quickly as possible for the service lounge, only to be intercepted by Tim, who hands over a case of beer bottles. 

“Admirals Club, now,” Tim directs.

“No, wait—”

“The bar hasn't been restocked and the Executive Elite are gonna get angry real quick.” 

“But, Padalecki,” Jensen calls out, voice fading into the noise of the busy concourse with Tim disappearing among the mob of passengers trying to make new travel plans, “is in there.”

Jensen sulks and drags his feet as he goes back to the Clubhouse, trying to elbow the door open and disrupting the box so that he drops most of his load as he finally nudges the door open. Thankfully, the bottles bounce on the plush, padded carpet, and not many notice him as he struggles to pick them all up get them settled back into the box.

When he stands upright, he instantly spots Mr. Padalecki in an arm chair by the window, staring out into the darkness of the storm. Jensen immediately walks in the opposite direction to hand out drinks to other club members. 

Once the box is discarded, there are two beers left. With one in each hand, Jensen is more than happy to down them both, and yet, somehow, something nags him when he sees Mr. Padalecki eyeing him. 

Jensen sucks it up and marches over to where the guy is sitting, offers him a bottle, and walks away. Only, he doesn’t get very far because Mr. Padalecki keeps one hand on the bottle, gets the other around Jensen’s wrist, and tugs him back. As quickly as Jensen registers that it’s happened, he yanks his hand back. “What’re you doing?”

“Trying to apologize,” Mr. Padalecki says with an awkward laugh.

“You already did … earlier … for whatever reason.”

“For getting you fired.”

Jensen glances around, wondering if Mike is nearby with a hidden camera. “I didn’t get fired.”

“I realize that now, which is great news.”

Now Mr. Padalecki is smiling and Jensen isn’t sure how to, or if he should, accept the gesture. “I’m not sure I understand what’s happening right now.”

Mr. Padalecki shifts in the arm chair to face Jensen and talks with extremely expressive hands (that are far too large for Jensen to comprehend without going into some odd, dirty places). “You weren’t here for a while, so I thought you were fired after the last … incident … with my Twitter. And for all the times you’ve royally pissed me off, I didn’t want you to be out of a job.”

“You called me despicable,” Jensen points out.

“Yeah, I know, I’m sor—”

“You called me despicable, sadistic garbage.”

Mr. Padalecki again laughs awkwardly. “Well, not particularly in that order.”

“In whatever order,” Jensen complains, “it’s all really pretty terrible.”

“Yeah, that’s what my publicist said. So I stopped tweeting.”

He watches Mr. Padalecki oddly, imagining what kind of world it is where a celebrity insists they’re no longer trying to spread word that they’re eating sushi or wearing some new fancy designer or something. “You stopped tweeting?”

“Well, not entirely.”

Jensen rolls his eyes and huffs. “No, not entirely.”

“Just about the airline.”

“Of course.”

“But you weren’t fired! So that’s great!” Mr. Padalecki exclaims.

“Yeah, sure, great for you and your image. Me? Not so much.”

“But you weren’t fired,” he repeats with less gusto.

“No, not fired. Just suspended without pay and rescheduled to the crack of fucking dawn.”

“Ouch,” Mr. Padalecki says with a wince. “I hate getting up early for the camera, but at least I get a little pampering done in the makeup trailer.”

Flatly, Jensen insists, “You are not helping the situation whatsoever.”

Mr. Padalecki puts his hands up and frowns. “Certainly not what I was going for.” He then waves his beer. “Really, I was going for a peace offering. You have a beer and I have a beer, so let’s have a beer together.”

Jensen is wholly confused and ready to pinch himself. Instead, he insists, “I’m actually on the clock right now.”

Naturally, that’s when Mike enters, slaps Jensen on the back, and says, “Your relief is here. Tim said you’re done for the day.”

Now, Mr. Padalecki is grinning. He even knocks the neck of his beer bottle against the one left in Jensen’s hand. “C’mon,” he wheedles. “What’s one beer gonna hurt?”

Jensen figures one beer will do nothing … three really loosens him up, however, and sometime later, he’s declaring under a frosty haze of Heineken, “But you’re _such_ an asshole.”

Mr. Padalecki— _Jared, please, I insist_ —laughs broadly, head tipping back, unruly hair shaking a bit across his neck, and mouth wide open and tempting.

Okay, maybe it was four beers that eased everything between them, along with a lot of Jensen’s horror stories about dealing with unruly passengers just like Jared … as well as some of Jared’s spectacularly terribly travel luck in any number of airports across the globe, not manifested by Jensen.

“You weren’t Little Miss Sunshine either, you know,” Jared insists. “Your customer service skills are about negative 18 with the amount of bend you offer club members.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of bend,” Jensen says with a quick smile, which he instantly regrets and hides behind the green glass bottle when he takes a healthy sip. 

Jared chuckles, something deep that turns a little dark. “I’ll bet you do. Probably with a little fight.”

“Who you been talking to?”

Another laugh comes over them, but it’s broken by a bright flash outside the window followed by a booming crack of thunder that rattles the glass. 

Jared whistles low. “Holy shit.”

“No kidding.” Jensen leans forward in his seat to see into the darkness. He can just barely make out the shape of the nearest plane, but that’s only helped by the quick smattering of lightning out there. “This ain’t lettin’ up any time soon.”

“Don’t look like it,” he says, a bit sadly. 

The clock on the wall reads 7:35 PM, and Jensen knows it could be at least another hour, probably a few, before _any_ flights get going, and it’s impossible to guarantee Jared’s would be at the top of the list. He frowns with the thought then stares at the now-empty room as he realizes they’ve been sitting here for nearly four hours just … _talking_. 

Jared plays with his phone and frowns as well. “I’m guessing there’s no way I’m flying tonight, eh?”

“Magic Eight Ball says highly unlikely.” Jensen leans towards Jared, trying to get a glance at the screen without seeming obvious. “Hopefully this time you’ll twitter that it’s not my fault?”

He seems confused, maybe a little hurt before he laughs. “Dude … Twitter is the thing. Tweet is when you actually do it.”

“I don’t know, I always called it something else,” Jensen replies with a smirk.

Jared returns the look. “Oh, so now you’re going there, huh?”

“I’m almost always there,” he replies boldly, then wheels it in to say, “just not, when, like, working or whatever.”

“That’s a shame.” Before Jensen can respond, or question it, Jared’s tapping at his phone screen and sighing. “I guess today’s stay at the airport is up. My request at the Hilton finally came through and my assistant got me on the first flight in the morning.”

Through the slight fog of alcohol, Jensen realizes that Jared is going to stay the night at the hotel on site, and this fun little moment is over. Which should be fine by him because Jared Padalecki, up until this evening, was a First Class, Emerald Executive Elite Asshole. 

“—get something in the restaurant, if you want to join me?”

Jensen looks over to the chair beside him, which is now empty. He has to tip his head back to see up to where Jared is standing with his bags gathered over one shoulder. It should be obviously what kind of invitation that is, to where, for what … all he says is, “Yeah, sure,” and follows Jared out of the Clubhouse.

Strangely, they both remain quiet while moving through the concourse, baggage areas, and out to where the shuttles are usually lined up to take travelers to parking lots, rental cars, and the Hilton Austin Airport. Instead, there is only rain falling at an unbelievable rate and a completely empty waiting area. Jensen stares into the distance where the drive-thru lanes are filling with rainwater, and only a few taxis cycle through here and there, hoping for riders that aren’t coming. The airport is practically shut down, absent of any business … and Jensen has no clue what he is really doing.

When he looks at Jared, all he gets in return is a small, secret smile that is far too endearing for someone who has been such a hassle in Jensen’s life for the last five months. Still, Jensen is buzzed and quite charmed, heat spreading through his body and a giddy little laugh bubbling out of his mouth. Jared fully smiles now, something akin to what is seen in a million photos on the internet, yet it feels warmer and like a reward, something Jensen has rightfully earned.

“What are we doing?” Jensen asks dumbly. 

“I thought we were waiting for a shuttle, but maybe they’re done for the night.”

That was nowhere near what Jensen meant, yet it seems to be the thing he needs to spur them into action. “It’s not that far, just beyond the parking lots. We can probably run it.”

Jared stares at the rain, eyes roaming the area as if he’s calculating something. He pulls the straps of his bag over his other shoulder so everything rests on his back. “I’m ready if you are?”

For his answer, Jensen runs into the rain, down the drive-thru ramp, and out towards the parking lots. Jared comes up behind him, shrieking and laughing along the way. It’s a longer run with water pounding down on them and soaking clothes down to skin. Jensen yanks off his American Airlines jacket, keeps it tight in his grip, and lets it trail beside him as he continues racing across the parking lot

Jared keeps up and takes the lead every few moments, until Jensen sprints forward just to beat him out the last few yards to the hotel. They’re far beyond foolish now, though it’s utterly playful and absurd that they’re sprinting against one another across the packed parking lots until they can finally make it to the Hilton. 

Jensen slides on slick marble floors when they enter the lobby, and Jared shakes his hair out like a dog, water spraying everywhere, making them laugh all over again. While Jared checks in at the main counter, Jensen remains at the entrance, shivering with the chill of air conditioning seeping through his wet shirt. 

He also casually checks out the lines of Jared’s back, his shoulders, even down to his hips and over his ass. Jared’s button-up and jeans are pitch-black with wetness and mold to nearly every curve of his body, and Jensen can’t ignore how that makes him feel. Even with being completely soaked, icy tendrils run down his arms, give him goose bumps and a little shiver. He imagines peeling each piece of clothing off Jared’s body, lavishing every square inch of cool, wet skin with his mouth … 

He’s so distracted with that thought he doesn’t realize he’s no longer alone and daydreaming until Jared lightly holds Jensen’s elbow. “You okay?”

Jensen shakes his head, laughs to himself, and runs his hand down his face to calm down. “Yeah, fine. Just, you know, wet and cold.”

“Well, good news … they say the restaurant’s open ‘til midnight. Wanna head to my room and dry off first?”

He stares into Jared’s eyes, searches for some double meaning in that question. Though he never finds it, he quickly chirps, “Yes, let’s go.”

It’s quiet to the room, and again once they’re inside. The only real words shared are Jared offering half the towels. Jensen digs deep for _something_ to say, and only comes up with, “How’d you get a room here? I’d bet the whole place was already packed.”

Jared hides his face by bending over to pat a towel at his jeans, but Jensen thinks he reads something akin to modesty. That’s utterly new when it comes to Jared. “My name helps.”

“It’s about time it does.” When Jared quickly looks up, Jensen smirks and shrugs. “Not that I’d know anything about that.”

With a smile, Jared stands up straight, and Jensen is certain that Jared takes the time to check him out, from head to toe, even across the shoulders and somewhere a little lower. Then Jared clears his throat and motions towards the other side of the room, presumably the bathroom. “I’m just gonna change clothes, try to dry off a bit more.”

“Wait,” Jensen calls out as Jared turns away. When he has Jared’s attention, Jensen tosses his jacket to the floor, takes his time to loosen the knot of his tie, pulls it off, then unbuttons the top few buttons on his shirt.

With an audible gulp, Jared’s throat quivers. He doesn’t move an inch, but his eyes slide from Jensen’s fingers working buttons up to Jensen’s eyes, as if he’s verifying that this is really happening.

Jensen isn’t so sure it is, but he figures he’ll run with it, smile big, and swing for the fences. 

And he does just that by removing his suit shirt and the undershirt that’s practically translucent with how wet it’s gotten. He sets his fingers over his belt while staring at Jared, waiting for some kind of reaction, a remark, anything. 

Jensen’s heart stops as he considers how huge a mistake this could be. “Am I reading this wrong?” he asks quietly.

Jared gulps again, shakes his head, and mumbles, “Uh, I’m not out.”

He nods in understanding, yet repeats his question, “But am I reading this wrong?”

“Definitely not,” Jared replies through a rushed breath. He huffs a laugh. “Probably part of why I hated you so much. No one should look that good and be that infuriating.”

Jensen smirks. “I always kind of thought the same of you.” They share a smile and Jensen continues with the boldness. “Why don’t you take off your shirt?”

Jared blushes, but follows the order with slow fingers dragging down the front of his shirt as each button is undone. Jensen had known Jared was built; it’s not a secret on that little show he’s been on for years, or in magazines and on the internet, photo shoots that are hard to avoid when half the world loves Jared. 

It’s a whole other thing to be faced with it: smooth, tan skin covering a rippled chest, dusty trails of hair in the center of Jared’s chest and again down his lower abdomen, disappearing into his pants. Jensen wants, and he wants bad, and _now_ , so he goes to Jared and touches. Every inch that’s bare gets Jensen’s fingers all over it, and Jared releases tiny sighs and whimpers as Jensen’s hands roam his shoulders, sides, even across his back. That’s when Jensen finally puts pressure into Jared’s skin, reels him in, and kisses him. 

It starts tentative, just short slides of their lips, with Jensen leading the movement and pressure. Something must click because Jared’s hands come up to Jensen’s cheeks, fingers dancing over Jensen’s ears, and Jared opens his mouth to deepen the kiss. Jensen holds Jared closer so their chests are tight and warm together, and Jared moans into Jensen’s mouth, holds their lips snug together as well. Jensen slides his hands down to Jared’s ass and tugs so their growing cocks are also trapped together. Shocks fire through Jensen’s legs, want and lust making him grind against Jared with the flesh of Jared’s ass in his hands. 

“Mmm, bed,” Jared mumbles against Jensen’s mouth, and there’s no way to deny that when it’s exactly what Jensen had been thinking. 

They trip over one another on the way to the bed as they refuse to release the kiss, and finally fall onto the bed. Jared hovers over Jensen, yet stays close. He dips in for a small, short kiss, which he repeats over and over, dragging his nose alongside Jensen’s at the same lazy rhythm he starts up as he rubs his hips down into Jensen’s. 

He can feel the hard line of Jared’s cock, wants to get even closer to it and ruts his hips up so Jared can feel him as well. Jared presses down harder, pushes the kiss even deeper, and now they’re both moaning and panting, grinding against one another, rhythm growing faster and faster. 

Jensen closes his eyes and squeezes his fingertips into Jared’s back, across smooth skin that buckles with every movement of strong muscle beneath it. He widens his legs to let Jared settle between them more snugly, and rings one leg around the back of Jared’s, keeping him trapped and as close as possible. It still never seems like enough, even with Jared’s tight, hard body pressing Jensen deep into the mattress, not even when the kisses get more frantic, as does the shift of their hips. Jensen just lifts his hips to meet every movement Jared makes, moaning and whimpering into Jared’s mouth without care for how impatient every noise is. 

Soon enough, they’re wrapped around one another, left with hardly any room to move, except for where their groins are sliding together. Jensen briefly thinks of getting their pants off, but then Jared rocks faster and whines like a man being undone, and Jensen doesn’t want to waste a moment of this right here. He can’t put a second of thought into anything that isn’t feeling this good. 

Jensen twists his fingers into the back of Jared’s jeans, nails cutting into the leather of his belt, and he pulls, yanks, insistently wrenches it this way and that to get them rocking even faster, that is until he feels his stomach swoop and heat pool in his lower abdomen.

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” Jensen mumbles. He knows he’s close, doesn’t want to end it and come, and yet he wants to ride this euphoria immediately.

Jared hums in response, shoves his hips down harder like he can fuck himself right inside despite their pants being in the way. That insistence only fuels Jensen’s orgasm, and it smacks right into him, his legs stiffening as he feels his pants fill with the warmth of come, and a long, withering groan escapes his lips. Jared kisses him hard with his tongue filling most of Jensen’s mouth. He whimpers, too, as he comes not much later, hips tipping forward at a lazy rate until he stops altogether.

They stay like that for a surprising amount of time. Heavy breathing fills Jensen’s ears along with the heavy pounding of his heart, very slowly, slowly, taking its time to right itself. 

Jared shifts up to look at him, and they stare at one another until Jared closes his eyes and drops closer, kisses Jensen’s jaw, his chin, and then his mouth. At least until Jared’s stomach growls something fierce and Jensen snorts into the kiss, eliciting a laugh from Jared as well. 

“You hungry?” Jared asks quietly.

Jensen is set to make a joke, but fears breaking the bubble like they’re wrapped up in. It seems as though they’re nestled within another world where they don’t hate one another, where Jared isn’t getting up at the ass crack of dawn to fly off to his fancy TV job and Jensen has to put back on a polyester uniform and face people who get to escape for even just a short time. 

“Yeah, sure,” Jensen murmurs, “whatever you want.”

Jared lifts an eyebrow, glances down the length of their bodies, and then smirks at him. “I think I’d like to explore that option after a bit of grub.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The restaurant is still open, but they don’t bother with it. Jared orders room service, a couple different meals and a smattering of finger foods to go with the sandwiches and steak. After each washes up in the bathroom, they settle in bed with some late-night sitcom reruns in the background and the bed sheets settled over their bare bodies, because there’s no reason to hide much after … well, Jensen isn’t sure what exactly to call it, but he’s more than content to fight over onion rings and fries, yet share pasta with the plate in Jared’s lap and a fork held out for Jensen to attempt eating from without getting sauce all over.

Belly full, Jensen slides a little lower in bed and puffs up the pillows beneath his head. He’s sure that once Jared returns from the bathroom, they’ll start round two.

Next he knows there’s a thin beam of light streaming into the room because he slept clear through the night.

Jared stands away from the bed, gathering up items in his carryon before finishing the last few buttons on his shirt.

Jensen quickly sits up, wishing he could bolt out the door or that he’d stayed asleep during this moment. He’s wholly unsure what anything means in the light of day, and doesn’t want to really face this conversation.

From over his shoulder, Jared gives him a tiny smile. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Yeah, morning,” Jensen mumbles, clears his throat. “Sorry I fell asleep.”

“No problem, really. I crashed soon after you did.” He clears his throat and shifts just slightly, enough to better face the bed, yet remain close to the path to the door. “I’ve got that early flight out.”

“Yeah, of course, don’t let me hold you up.” Jensen gets out of bed when a flash of embarrassment, maybe even remorse, hits him in the chest. He pulls at the comforter to cover him from the waist down and hunts around for his clothes. “I’ll be out of here real soon.”

“Not a big deal … Check-out’s at 11.”

Jensen thinks _yeah, I got it_ , and snatches his shirt off the floor.

“So, maybe I’ll see you again?”

He’s pulling his pants up, focused completely on getting his fly back in place. “Yeah, I’ll be back on schedule in a few weeks.”

“No, I mean …”

Jensen looks up so quickly, he goes a bit light-headed. Or maybe it’s the hesitant way Jared smiles and nudges his shoulder up. “Oh, um … _Oh!_ You mean …” 

Jared makes the tiny shrug notion again, smile awkward and crooked.

Jensen laughs at himself, now anxious and surprised. “Yeah, that … that sounds great.”

“Great,” Jared echoes, even brighter than Jensen had said it, which is extraordinary.

Jensen offers a small wave, knowing they have to put this moment to an end soon, but unsure how exactly to go about that. “Have a good flight, and all that.”

Jared smiles and steps up to him. “Won’t be as much fun as the pre-flight usually is.”

He fakes a cold stare and deadpans, “I’m so sorry you won’t have me to torment.”

“Me, too.” 

“It may be a novel idea … but you could start being nicer to airline staff.”

Jared looks shocked and annoyed. “Now where’s the fun in that? Especially when it gets me here?”

Before Jensen can answer, Jared is kissing him with a confident sweep of his tongue along Jensen’s, and really, there’s no way to argue with that.

 

*

 

“Excuse me?”

Jensen lifts a hand in a _wait_ gesture and keeps reading the flight screen. He has the phone tucked into his shoulder, ear pressed hard at the receiver, and is listening carefully to Felicia rattling off a handful of directives.

“Seat 14A and B aren’t yet registered,” she says, “and 22C is open. 24D through F is … oh, shoot, just taken by the Hart Family.”

“I’m sorry, I was—” says the customer on the other side of the counter, but Jensen again waves him off. Jensen and Felicia are sorting out a few seat changes after a pregnant club member had just missed the previous flight and hoped to get off to L.A. with some decent space to accommodate her big belly.

“Okay, what if we move 5F into 14C,” Jensen offers. “Then we give her an aisle seat?”

“Really? And aisle seat?”

Jensen quickly glances around for the customer, sees she’s seated in an arm chair to his left, and whispers, “I mean, you should see this woman’s belly …”

Felicia chuckles and taps out a long run of keys. “That should work … you’ll see the change reflected in 3, 2, and there you go!”

He smiles at the updated passenger log, thanks Felicia, and dumps off the phone with a flourish. He hits a few more keys to print the updated ticket and grabs a boarding pass envelope.

“That sure took long enough,” Jared says, now making sure his presence is known even as he’s been leaning against the counter for the last five minutes.

Jensen glares at him before turning to the left. “Mrs. Barker? You’re all set now.”

“Oh my, you are such a sweetheart!” she insists, not really jumping up or rushing over in her state, but excited all the same.

“Anything for our customers.” He winks are her then grins when he can see Jared rolling his eyes. “Thank you for choosing American Airlines.”

She flashes a wide smile then goes back to the cushy armchair. 

When Jensen faces forward, Jared has his arms still resting on the counter, now with his fingers tapping out an impatient rhythm. 

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Really?” Jared asks, voice bored.

“What?”

“Octomom’s about to burst and against better medical judgment, you move all of Heaven and Earth to get her a First Class seat and let her fly?”

“That’s kind of rude you know,” he replies flippantly. “And besides, since when do you have medical judgment?”

“Since I play a doctor on TV.”

Now, Jensen chuckles, shakes his head, and tries to ignore the way his skin heats up with the smug smile Jared aims his way. “That’s what you’re working with?”

Jared leans over the counter, looking up to Jensen from beneath his eyelashes. “I could always show you what I’m _really_ working with.”

Jensen tries not to grin. “Oh, you have, many times.”

“And?”

They have a short staring contest, Jensen narrowing his eyes the longer it goes on until Jared winks and smirks, and Jensen can’t help but smile. Or grab a few drink tickets and slowly slide them over the counter. “I’d give it a better rating than your TV show.”

“Ouch! That cuts deep,” Jared declares, even as he covers Jensen’s hand to retrieve the vouchers while sneaking in a lot of physical touching. 

“Welcome to the Unfriendly Skies.”

Jared squeezes Jensen’s hand, rubs his thumb along the side. “It’s actually really, _really_ friendly these days.”

Jensen smirks, tips his head to the side with an impressed little shrug. “Well, you know … American Airlines. _There’s something special in the air_.”

“And in your pants,” Jared whispers before walking over to the bar in the corner and then pulling out his phone.

“He better not tweet that,” Jensen grumbles. His cell buzzes in his pocket and he fears that very thing, praying like he does every time his new Twitter app alerts him that Jared’s posted something … but then he reads the newly-received text and smiles when it’s a row of winking emoticons from Jared.

Jensen gets back to the computer, keys in a few commands, and now Jared’s seat has disappeared from the 2:30 flight, reappearing on the 4:30. 

And for the first time ever, Jensen will admit it is absolutely his fault.


End file.
